Roy Mustang and the Magic School
by Immer Mit Der Ruhe
Summary: "England?" Roy replies, disbelief clear in his tone. "England" doesn't exist outside of storybooks, a magical land where Equivalent Exchange doesn't need to be abided by. It appears that Dr. Marcoh's experimental transportation array was faultier than he'd anticipated. (Post-FMA:B/manga, set during Order of the Phoenix. Blind!Roy.)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This fic is based vaguely off of an old fic I wrote and posted on this site approximately six years ago, under a different pseudonym. The title of that fic, at the time, was "Whisked Away," and while there are certain similarities between these two fics, this story will be significantly different from its predecessor. For example, it shall only be set in Harry's 5th year ( _The Order of the Phoenix_ ). Additionally, I will venture to keep OC's out of this fic, although there is a very minor, nameless librarian in this particular chapter. So anyway, if parts of this fic seem oddly familiar, it's probably because you read my previous version.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own either FMA or HP, you know the drill.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

Roy Mustang would like to state, for the record, that he'd known that Pride's miraculous transformation into a docile child was too good to be true.

And as he races through the darkened alleys of Central, he's glad he did. He'd kept his eyes sharp when he'd started noticing out-of-place shadows, and hadn't ignored his instincts when he'd felt the prickling sensation of someone watching him, even when he was alone.

The only thing he regrets is not sharing his suspicions with anyone else. He can only hope it doesn't cost him his life.

"Don't you think it's about time to stop running, human?" a distorted voice rasps, and Roy struggles not to trip as shadows tug at his ankles, trying to drag him down to the cobblestones. "Just tell me where the Philosopher's Stone is and I'll make your death as painless as possible."

"I don't have it," Roy snaps, his mind racing as he searches for an escape route.

One comes to mind, and he wonders if he's desperate enough to try it yet.

"Tell me where it is, then," Pride orders, and Roy stumbles, a shadow getting a firm hold on his right leg, anchoring him down. The shadow yanks at him hard, and a moment later Roy's knees hit the ground.

Roy curses under his breath, claps his hands together, and slams them into the ground, gritting his teeth and hoping that his transmutation works.

He feels a surge of energy, and then nothing.

* * *

Roy regains consciousness slowly.

Which, while not ideal, means he's alive, at least. Hopefully it also means that his transportation transmutation worked.

He pries his eyes open, a little disoriented when it doesn't change the state of darkness he's in, before he remembers that he's no longer in possession of a Philosopher's Stone. It had taken careful extraction to separate his body from the stone he'd been using to supplement his vision, but he doesn't regret it, shuddering a little at the thought of Pride _ripping_ the stone from his body instead.

Gingerly, Roy pushes himself to his feet. There's a wall behind him, stone – part of a building, he thinks. He props himself up against it and takes a moment to assess his position, steadying his breathing and focusing on the flow of energy around him.

It's an ability he'd gained after seeing the Truth. Now, he can tell with a single touch the composition of everything around him, down to the smallest of trace elements, knows how to build them up and break them down, how to convert and conserve.

But he can also feel the _flow,_ the energy that runs through everything on earth, pulsing in a complex network beneath his feet.

He'd tried to explain it to Edward once, but had only received a blank, uncomprehending stare in response. Ed had said that he understood what he was talking about in reference to composition and bonds, but he'd been at a loss as to the "flow" that Roy had described.

It wasn't until he'd mentioned it to Alphonse that anyone understood what he was talking about. Al had said it sounded like the "Dragon's Pulse" described in Alkahestry, the "chi" running through the earth which Alkahestrists manipulated to perform their brand of alchemy.

This knowledge probably shouldn't have surprised Roy as much as it had. He doesn't remember much of his parents, but his father had been from Xing and had often patched up Roy's childhood scrapes and bruises with what Roy had, at the time, assumed to be alchemy. It even explains Roy's affinity for fire alchemy – his ability to so delicately control the flow of volatile flames.

But now, without his vision, his ability to detect the flow of the earth's energy is his most useful skill.

The highest concentration of chi he can detect is to his left, so he starts in that direction, trailing his fingers against the wall to help guide himself. He's too far away to be able to discern individuals, but where there's lots of chi, there's bound to be other humans.

Or he could just be walking into the middle of a forest, he supposes. He still has difficulty discerning plant chi pathways from animal ones.

But either way, he's not going to get anywhere if he just lies in an alleyway forever.

Roy walks until the wall ends, and then pauses for a moment before heading a little further forwards until he feels his hand connect with another wall, this time in front of him. To his right, he feels a conglomeration of chi moving towards him, close enough for him to detect its complex pathways, indicating another human.

"Could you please – " he starts, reaching out a hand, but the person just shoulders past him, snapping something at him in a language he doesn't recognize.

Roy clenches his jaw and shakes it off, deciding to head right down the new street, leading him closer to what seems to be more human chi pathways. Along the way, he feels a few more people pass him, but he doesn't try to engage them, lest they treat him the same way as the first person.

Roy finally comes to the end of the street – or, rather, the alleyway, he suspects. The actual street in front of him is much wider and packed to the brim with people, a constant hum of noise enveloping him.

He pauses there for a moment, frozen as he tries to figure out which direction to head in next, but before he can move, he feels someone bump into him. It's not a hard hit – he barely stumbles – but he hears the other person say something to him in a rapid, apologetic tone, their hand going to his arm to help steady him.

He tries to smile at them and shakes his head, saying, "I don't understand."

The stranger pauses, and for a moment Roy thinks they've left, but a moment later he hears them say, "You need help?"

Their voice is high – a woman's, Roy thinks – and their accent is strange and a little distorted, but to his surprise, Roy can understand the woman well enough.

"Yes, thank you," Roy says quickly, relief washing over him. "Where am I?"

"Diagon Alley," the woman replies, and Roy frowns, wondering if this is some sort of dialectal slang that he doesn't know.

"What country?" he asks.

The woman pauses again, and Roy supposes it _is_ a strange question to ask, but she says, "England."

"England?" Roy replies, disbelief clear in his tone. "England" doesn't exist outside of storybooks, a magical land where Equivalent Exchange doesn't need to be abided by.

"You have mis-apparated?" the woman asks, but Roy's already shaking his head. "You are from Germany?"

Roy feels his forehead crease as the name of another fairytale land is invoked. It appears that Dr. Marcoh's experimental transportation array was faultier than he'd anticipated. Then again, if the events of the past year have taught him anything, it's that some myths are closer to truth than anyone wants to believe.

"Is there an inn where I can stay?" Roy asks suddenly, already starting to form a plan of action. "And a bank?"

The woman helping him hesitates for a moment, clearly caught off guard at his change in topic, but then says something in a language Roy doesn't recognize – different from the foreign language she had been speaking before, and not her broken Amestrian – and he feels her chi pathways suddenly shift, an energy rushing through them which he's never felt before. The strange energy hits him squarely before he can think to dodge, and an image blooms in his mind.

His startles as he realizes it's some sort of map, two spots on it lighting up. He opens his mouth to demand to know what kind of alchemy she just preformed on him, but she speaks before he can fully form the words.

"Right is the inn," the woman says in her awkward Amestrian dialect. "Across the street the bank."

"Thank you," Roy replies, dipping his head.

"You need help, I am Minerva McGonagall," the woman tells him.

"Thank you, Miss McGonagall," Roy replies, giving her his most charming smile. He hears her snort, apparently amused. "Roy Mustang."

"Take care, Mr. Mustang," Ms. McGonagall tells him, patting him on the shoulder once more, before turning to leave.

Roy tracks her path down the street for a moment, before turning back down the alley he came through. He ducks down another smaller alley along its side, out of sight of the few people lingering in the side-street. He crouches down and brushes his fingers over the cobblestone road, pleased when he finds traces of lead in the stone. He smirks and claps his hands together.

Transmuting gold may be illegal, but he's in a country that doesn't exist outside of children's tales and desperate times call for desperate measures. He can only hope that gold works as currency here, too.

That done, he pries the few cobblestones out of the street and pockets them, dusting off his hands. Then, he makes his way towards the bank.

* * *

Edward Elric receives a letter about the disappearance of Brigadier General Roy Mustang five days after the fact, and takes the first train to Central.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye!" Ed hollers as soon as he jumps off of the train, bag slung over his shoulder.

"Edward," Riza greets him, managing a shadow of a smile, although her appearance is ragged and tired. "I'm glad you could make it."

"You should have called," Edward snaps, and Riza's gaze goes icy. "Who knows what sort of trouble that bastard could have gotten into in the past five days!"

"You know how secure phones are," Riza says, her tone cold, and Ed feels his heart drop.

"It's that bad?" Ed asks, tone uncharacteristically soft. Riza just nods.

"Come on, Al's already at the house," Riza says, leading Ed to a waiting car. Captain Falman waves tiredly at Ed from the driver's seat.

"So what have you found?" Ed demands as soon as they pull away from the curb, heading towards Roy's house.

"Not much," Riza sighs. "There's clear signs of a struggle, furniture knocked over, but nothing that clearly indicates a certain suspect."

"Blood?" Ed asks, steeling himself for the answer.

"None," Riza replies, much to Ed's relief. "The General hasn't made contact with anyone at this point, though."

Ed frowns, but has no way to argue with her statement – at this point, at least.

"Fuery was the last to make contact with General Mustang," Riza continues. "He said that the General seemed relatively calm when he left the office, though."

"Was he?" Edward asks, frowning. He sees Riza pause, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I had noticed that he was looking a little worn out recently," Riza admits, looking down at her hands, which are clenched into tight fists. "I assumed he would tell me if he had serious enough concerns. I'm worried he wasn't prepared."

"You think he's dead?" Ed asks, a little bluntly. He and the General have always had a tumultuous relationship, but the thought of him being dead makes Ed strangely nauseous, dread congealing in his stomach.

"He's missing in action until we have a body," Riza replies, her tone sharp. Ed winces, regretting his question a little.

Thankfully, they pull up at the General's house before Edward can shove his foot further into his mouth. Ed frowns as he gets out of the car, though – from the outside, at least, it doesn't look like there's anything out of place about the house. The bushes are somewhat overgrown, but Ed's honestly surprised that Roy would have a garden in the first place, much less tend to it diligently.

The inside, however, is a different matter.

The living room is in complete disarray, chairs, lamps, and side-tables knocked over, and broken glass from the lightbulbs strewn across the floor. The kitchen isn't much better, with the entire kitchen table tipped over. Edward freezes for a moment when he sees a couple of bullet holes in the wall.

"Were these made by Mustang or someone else?" Ed asks, moving closer to examine the bullet holes.

"General Mustang's gun was found on the floor with three rounds missing, so at this point we're assuming that it was him," Riza confirms. "We're still waiting on ballistics, though. We've been trying to keep this quiet. The last thing we need is for the press to get ahold of this story."

"Hm," Ed replies, studying the bullet holes in the wall for a moment longer before turning to look through the rest of the house.

However, when he enters the study, he pauses in the doorway for a moment. It's somehow in even a worse state than the kitchen, papers strewn everywhere and books torn clean in half. Something about the mess – beyond the scope of it – is different than the rest of the house, though, and Ed finds himself frowning as he surveys the scene.

"Find anything, brother?" Al asks, sidling up next to Ed and peering over his shoulder. (He's a whole two inches taller than Ed now, and Ed tries not to get mad about it. Too often, at least. He's the _older_ brother, goddamn it.)

"I don't know," Ed replies truthfully, scratching the back of his head. "The damage in this room looks different, don't you think?"

"Huh," Al says, his tone thoughtful. "You're right, the damage is a lot more… _thorough_. Like it was done after the fight, not during it."

"They were looking for something," Edward mutters, stepping further into the room and couching down to shift through the papers on the floor. "But what?"

"Do you think they found it?" Al asks, starting to look through the disarrayed bookshelves.

"I don't think so," Ed answers, shaking his head. "The amount of damage suggests that the person who was searching the room was getting frustrated. People don't tear books in half to try and find something."

"Did you two find something?" Riza asks, appearing in the doorway.

"Sort of," Al answers as Ed continues to look through the papers on the floor. "Ed thinks that this room was destroyed after the fight, and that whoever did it was looking for something, but didn't find it. Do you have any idea where the General would hide something important?"

Riza hesitates for a moment.

"I might," she finally says, and makes her way over to the far corner of the room, where a chess board lies haphazardly on the edge of a small table. The pieces have all been scattered across the floor, and a few have hairline cracks in them, but the piece Riza bends down to pick up is completely intact.

With a twist of her wrist, she pries the bottom off the queen and lets its contents drop out into the palm of her hand.

She, Ed, and Al all stare at the small, red stone.

"Is that – ?" Al asks, eyes wide.

"It's the stone Mustang was using to see," Edward confirms, his tone grim and his lips pressed into a tight, unhappy line.

"But if he doesn't have it with him – " Al says, concern clear in his tone.

"He thought that whoever was following him was dangerous enough that he'd sacrifice his vision again to keep them from getting the stone," Riza interrupts, her eyes hard. "But this also means that he's probably alive."

"Yeah?" Edward asks, frowning.

"As far as his attacker is aware, General Mustang is the only one who knows where the stone is," Riza explains, clutching the queen so tightly in her hand that her knuckles look a little white.

"At least it buys us some time," Alphonse says softly.

"Now we just have to figure out who would want stone that badly," Ed says, his expression determined. "Who knew that Mustang had the stone?"

"The three of us, Führer Grumman, and Dr. Marcoh," Riza answers.

"There has to be someone else," Ed protests, mind racing as he tries to think of who else was there on that fateful day, when Mustang had lost his sight. There had been plenty more people who had seen him stumbling about, blind, but few of them knew that it had been fixed with a Philosopher's Stone. The cover story was that Mustang had just been temporarily blinded by a flash grenade.

"Hey guys," Alphonse says suddenly, breaking Ed and Riza form their thoughts. They look over to find Al holding one of the few intact lamps near the wall, angled down towards the corner of the room. "Look at this."

"At what?" Ed asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"At the shadows," Al answers, indicating the shadow in the corner of the room – which, while under direct lamplight, hadn't disappeared.

Oh shit.

* * *

Almost two weeks have passed and Roy hasn't gotten anywhere.

Between the language barrier and his lack of sight, trying to get information has been slow-going. He'd found a bookstore his first day and managed to stumble through an awkward conversation with the shopkeeper until she'd directed him to a tiny section of the store with books in a language called "German."

Not that that had helped him all that much. However, when he'd awkwardly motioned to his eyes, the shopkeeper had just let out an annoyed sounding huff and muttered something, their chi warping strangely. A moment later, Roy had found himself holding a book with braille dotting the pages.

In the end, he'd left the store with a handful of books, translated by the shopkeeper. (Although he's fairly sure that she'd charged him extra for it.)

The "German" to "English" dictionary has been by far the most useful of them, and despite his difficulties with the few dialectal differences between "German" and Amestrian, Roy is slowly building up a decent vocabulary – enough for small transactions in stores, at least.

But as for the other books, well. He's not entirely sure what the make of them.

At first, he'd assumed it was due to some sort of mistranslation when all the books kept referencing "magic." A mistranslation of alchemy, he'd thought, but no – he was at a loss for how alchemy could account for all these "spells." Make something float? Turn a rat into a teacup? Impossible.

Well, impossible with alchemy. From what he'd observed so far, it was quite possible in this fairytale world.

Roy shuts the final book with a loud clap. He desperately needs more reading material.

He takes a moment to stretch and then tugs his coat and gloves on, before heading downstairs, intent on finding the innkeeper. Thankfully, Tom is behind the bar as usual, wiping down the wood with a damp cloth.

"Gut morning," Roy manages, trying not to get irritated at how thick and obvious his accent still is. But then again, he's only been learning the language for a little over a week.

"You know, I think you're getting better," Tom replies with a toothy grin, and Roy can't help but roll his eyes. "Need help with something?"

"Is t'ere – wie sagt man?" Roy mutters, wracking his brain. "Library, I t'ink?"

"You're looking for a library?" Tom asks, and Roy nods, relieved. "Alright, well, we have a section in the British Library. It's right next to King's Cross station, though, so you'll have to apparate or take the tube to get there."

"Tube?" Roy echoes, wrinkling his nose.

"It's, uh," Tom replies, pausing for a second. "The underground train? What do you German blokes call it, U-Bahn or something?"

Roy frowns, wondering if he's mistranslating again. There are certainly no underground trains in Central, although from what he's seen of this world so far, they've certainly make some advancements which have not yet been developed in Amestris. Underground trains, at least, are not nearly as farfetched as _magic_.

Tom explains in more detail how to get to the "Tube" station, and Roy manages to navigate the route to the library with relatively minimal difficulty. (Well, barring his issues with the turnstile.)

However, it's something of a different story when he finally gets to the library. He makes his way to the help desk on the second floor, as instructed, and asks for access to the specific reading room, but the person manning the desk says, "Library card?"

"Card?" Roy repeats, his brow furrowing.

The person at the desk subtly checks the nearby area before leaning in close to Roy and hissing, "Your _wand_."

"Ach so," Roy replies, trying to suppress a wince. "It is not vit' me. Forgotten."

It's so much harder to negotiate with people with a language barrier.

"You _forgot_ your wand?" the librarian asks, sounding incredulous. "How do you forget your wand?"

Roy shrugs, pretending not to understand. It's not as if it's too far from the truth, though – he can only half understand what the librarian is saying.

"Well, come back when you have it," the librarian sighs. "I can't let you in without it. Standard protocol."

"Wie bitte?" Roy replies, his brow furrowing.

"You can't go into the reading room," the librarian says slowly. "No library."

Roy plasters on his most charming smile and says, "Maybe t'is time you – "

"Please just go and get your wand," the librarian sighs, one of their hands going to Roy's shoulder to nudge him back towards the door.

Roy's lips turn down into a scowl, but he doesn't press the matter anymore, instead turning around to head back to the Leaky Cauldron. It's not until he's halfway there, on the underground train, that it occurs to him that he's come across a wand store before. He doesn't have much foreign currency left, but he's only exchanged transmuted gold at the bank once, and hadn't aroused any particular suspicions. (At least, not any that the strange chimeras working at the bank could prove.)

So when he gets back to the inn, instead of holing himself up in his room again, he heads to the back alley. The first time, he'd been more than a little confused when confronted with the wall blocking his path, but after the past few weeks, it's become practically second nature to clap his hands together, transmute a small hole in the brick, and then seal it back up after going through. So far no one's accused him of property damage.

He makes his way down Diagon Alley, grateful that it's not as crowded as usual at three in the afternoon on a Thursday. He's gotten better at keeping track of strangers' chi signals, but it can be a little overwhelming trying not to bump into people when the street is packed, like it typically is. The first word he'd learned in English was "sorry."

As he steps into the old wand shop, not for the first time, Roy wishes he was able to take in all the details of the building. He can tell the general layout, that there's a counter in front of him and the walls are lined with shelves, packed with small boxes.

What makes him pause, though, is the dull chi he can feel emanating from each box. He's about to reach for one of the boxes to examine its contents, when he hears someone say, "I don't believe I've seen you in my store before."

Roy fights not to flinch, instead plastering a polite smile on his face and turning in the direction of the voice.

"I vill a vand buy," Roy says, trying not to grimace at his own broken, accented English.

"You _will_?" the shopkeeper chuckles, and Roy frowns, his nose wrinkling.

"Vant?" he tries instead. "I vant buy a vand?"

The shopkeeper replies with a noncommittal hum, before saying, "Well, let's get your measurements, then. Hold out your wand arm."

Roy hesitates for a moment, but then brings up his dominant arm, hoping that he's interpreted correctly. He feels something ghost over his skin a moment later, and can't help but flinch back.

"It's just my tape-measure," the shopkeeper assures him in a soft tone, a little apologetic.

Roy doesn't recognize the word "tape-measure" but he relaxes when the object doesn't attack him outright. He's not entirely sure how long he holds his position, but just as he starts to fidget, the strange object floats away from him.

"Try this," the shopkeeper instructs, pressing a slim piece of wood into Roy's hand.

Roy frowns for a moment, testing its composition. Some sort of wood, of course. Keratin, strangely enough, at the center.

"Well, give it a wave," the shopkeeper instructs, his tone impatient.

Reluctantly, Roy flicks his wrist, feeling supremely childish while doing so, but as soon as the motion is complete, he feels the slender piece of wood _yank_ at his chi.

" _Schei_ _ß_ _e_ – " he hisses as he feels a beam of energy shoot out of the end of the wand. He hears something shatter not too far away.

The shopkeeper mutters something Roy can't comprehend under his breath, and snatches the wand back. However, instead of reprimanding Roy, he shoves a new wand into Roy's hand. It continues like this for quite some time, and Roy's starting to think that maybe magic just isn't within his capabilities, despite his affinity for alchemy.

He's about to beg off and leave when the shopkeeper hands him another wand which feels… _right_. Instead of yanking at his chi, the wand seems to gently draw it out of him. It's like using alchemy, carefully infusing energy into a transmutation circle.

"T'is one," Roy says firmly, gripping the wand tightly.

"Oh, definitely," the shopkeeper replies, sounding pleased. "Eleven inches, cherry, with a phoenix feather core. A very good wand."

"How much?" Roy asks, digging his coin purse out of his pocket.

"Seven galleons," the shopkeeper answers, and Roy digs seven of the largest coins out of his bag, handing them over.

"T'ank you," Roy says, dipping his head slightly and pocketing his newly bought wand.

"Glad to be of service," the shopkeeper replies.

Roy exits the shop and wonders if he still has time before the library closes.

* * *

Time passes slowly, but not slowly enough. As each day passes, Roy's reminded Pride is somewhere out there, doing god knows what, and Central has been left undefended.

Well, relatively undefended. Roy can only hope that his subordinates are looking for him as thoroughly as he's looking for his own way back. Not for the first time, he regrets using Marcoh's experimental transmutation. Then again, if he hadn't he'd probably be dead and just as useless.

On the subject of uselessness, the library he's been reading his way through – and practically living in, if he's being honest – is just that. They have virtually nothing on alchemy, and what they do have could have passed as children's guides back in Amestris. The books on magic, meanwhile, aren't much more useful. So far what he's read has either been too basic – more "how to" guides than anything – and the rest have been too complex, the terminology far too advanced for his limited English vocabulary.

He has managed to work a few spells, at least. He suspects he could do the braille translation one in his sleep, by now, and he's also managed to make his books levitate, and his pillow catch on fire. (Tom, the innkeeper, has been less than thrilled with his last experiment, but Roy had repaid him in full for the damages.)

In short, Roy has come to realize that he needs a bigger library. And possibly a translator.

(He hasn't managed to find any workable translation spells, yet – not for speech, at least. Book translation spells seem fairly common, but ones for fluid speech, it seems, are too complex.)

"Is t'ere a ot'er library?" Roy asks without preamble as he arrives at wizarding section of the British Library as soon as it opens in the morning. The librarian doesn't seem particularly surprised to see him, but then again, Roy's been coming to the library every day from open to close for almost two weeks now.

"Another library?" the librarian asks, and Roy can practically hear their frown.

"I haff read all books here," he answers, a little dismissively.

" _All_ of them?" the librarian repeats, incredulous.

"All I can read," Roy corrects, lips turning down in a scowl. "So need new library."

"The only larger one in all of Great Britain is at Hogwarts," the librarian huffs.

"Hogvarts?" Roy echoes. The name sounds vaguely familiar, like he'd come across it in one of his books, but he can't quite place it.

"School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the librarian clarifies.

"Can you tell me how I get t'ere?" Roy asks, already determined. He might not have detected Pride's presence recently, but that doesn't necessarily mean that Pride didn't get swept along to this world with Roy's transmutation. And if he didn't, he's still loose in Central. Compared with that alternative, Roy almost hopes that Pride is here in England with him.

"You can't just use the Hogwarts library. It's for students and faculty use," the librarian retorts, and Roy frowns. It's like Amestris' restricted military libraries, it seems. "You'd have to request access from Headmaster Dumbledore or Deputy Headmistress McGonagall – "

"McGonagall?" Roy interrupts. "Minerfa McGonagall?"

"Yes – " the librarian starts.

Roy grins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** If you're wondering how it's possible for Roy to become a teacher at Hogwarts so easily, then consider that Hagrid is also a teacher even after being expelled in his third year. I'm taking some liberties and assuming that basically the only requirement for getting a staff position at Hogwarts is Dumbledore's approval. Additionally, for those wondering about why no one's questioned Roy's blindness, it's addressed briefly in this chapter but will be expanded on in later installments.

 **Disclaimer:** Not mine. You know how it goes.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

In all honesty, Minerva had not expected to hear from the blind German man she'd met in Diagon Alley ever again. Her offer of assistance had been more of a formality than anything, so when she receives a letter written in awkward English, she's not entirely sure what to make of it.

 _Sehr geehrte Frau Professor McGonagall,_ the letter starts. _I know not if you remember me. We met in Diagon Alley? You helped me the inn to find, and offered future help. I am hoping that your offer – wie sagt man? Immer noch gilt. I am sorry for my English. I try to learn, but it is immer noch difficult. I have spell used to make pen write what I say, but I know not if it works. I hope it goes._

 _But that is not why I write to you. I have heard that you are teacher at a magic school. The school has a big Bibliothek, ja? I have read alle books, die ich lesen kann, in the Britishe Bibliothek. Can you let me the school Bibliothek use? I know that it only for sch_ _ü_ _ler and professor is, but I will not be trouble. Bitte sch_ _ö_ _n._

 _Roy Mustang_

Minerva reads the short letter at least four times before putting it down to think. It's not as if Hogwarts has never accepted outside researchers into its library – in fact, many former students utilize it in their post-Hogwarts studies. It is, after all, the largest wizarding library in Great Britain.

Still, it is a little shocking and unnerving to receive a letter from a man she'd only briefly met and who, at the time, had not seemed to speak any English. There hadn't seemed to be anything malicious about him, yet Minerva can't help but wonder if he has any ulterior motive. After all, it wouldn't be the first time the Dark Lord had tried to infiltrate Hogwarts through unconventional means.

But then again, the way she'd met the man in Diagon Alley truly had seemed accidental at the time.

She decides to consult with Albus.

He's in his office, as he usual is, but Minerva purses her lips as her eyes land on him. He looks remarkably harried – _drained_ , for lack of a better word. While he doesn't look quite his full one hundred and fourteen years of age, he certainly looks impossibly older than he had even a year ago. The war, it seems, is taking its toll.

"You wished to see me, Minerva?" Albus asks, looking up from the newspaper spread out on his desk.

"Why are you reading that drivel?" Minerva snorts, eyeing the _Daily Prophet_ issue dubiously.

"You know as well as I that it's important to keep up with the lies the Ministry is feeding the rest of Britain," Albus says easily, his tone remarkably light. "But you're not here to disparage my reading material, are you, Minerva?"

"I've just received a letter from a researcher, requesting access to the Hogwarts library," Minerva answers, wondering how exactly to explain the situation.

"Someone you know?" Albus asks, interest in his tone.

"In a sense," Minerva allows. "We ran into each other in Diagon Alley, quite literally."

"This sounds like the beginning of a romance film," Albus replies, clearly amused.

"Albus!" Minerva snaps, unable to keep the mildly scandalized tone from her voice. "He looked barely thirty. He could easily be my son."

Albus chuckles, but doesn't press the matter, instead saying, "So you're worried about letting him into the school because you don't know if your encounter was planned, perhaps by Voldemort?"

"It would be a strange coincidence otherwise," Minerva confirms, but she also hesitates slightly. "But at the same time, I imagine it would have been difficult for him to arrange the collision."

"How so?" Albus asks, curious.

"He was clearly blind," Minerva answers, "and spoke hardly any English."

"Blind?" Albus repeats, frowning. Minerva understands his confusion – such disabilities aren't exactly common in wizarding society, when mediwizards at St. Mungo's can regrow a person's entire hand in just a few hours. Then again, certain dark curses can complicate the healing process and leave people permanently disabled.

"It appeared to be an old condition. I didn't think it polite to ask about it," Minerva elaborates. Maybe 'old' isn't quite accurate, but there was nothing to suggest that the injury had been recently inflicted. Albus nods, his expression thoughtful.

"Did he say what his area of research is?" Albus asks, and Minerva shakes her head.

"Just that he had already read all of the books he could read at the British Library," Minerva answers, her tone dry. She sees Albus' eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Well, Hogwarts has always stove to aid those who seek knowledge," Albus finally says. "Perhaps you can arrange a meeting with him to discuss his research more before deciding whether to let him into the school. I trust your judgement, Minerva."

"Thank you, Albus," Minerva replies, voice softening.

"What did you say the man's name was?" Albus asks, right as Minerva turns to leave.

"Roy Mustang," she replies. Albus' face shows no recognition, and Minerva can't tell if that's a good sign or a bad one.

"Roy Mustang," she hears him mutter as she leaves the office to go write back to the strange Mr. Mustang.

She sorely hopes that he passes her investigation. There's a certain spark about him she can't help but admire.

* * *

Minerva arranges to meet Mr. Mustang at the Leaky Cauldron later that week. He's already sitting at one of the tables when she arrives, a book in his hands and a cup of coffee by his elbow. He tilts his head towards her as she begins to approach him, however.

"Mr. Mustang," she greets him, taking a seat across the table from him.

"Frau McGonagall," he replies with a charming smile, closing his book and setting it off to the side – _A Brief History of Wizarding Britain_ , she notes. "You haff receifed my letter?"

"I did," Minerva replies, studying the man in front of her carefully. There's nothing about him that seems immediately threatening, at least to her eyes. "However, the headmaster and I were hoping to learn a little more about your research before giving you access to the Hogwarts library."

"Natürlich," Mr. Mustang answers easily, threading his fingers together in front of him. "Vhat you vant to know?"

"Well, you could start with the subject of your research," Minerva answers dryly, and sees the edges of Mr. Mustang's lips twitch up into a small, amused smile.

"Alkemie," he replies, catching Minerva off guard. "Transportation alchemie, sagt man?"

"You are an alchemist?" Minerva asks, trying not to let her tone display her surprise. Alchemy had been taught at Hogwarts many years ago, but they had stopped offering the course as teachers became harder and harder to find. It had already been pushed out of the main curriculum and made into an optional course by the time Minerva had gone through school.

"I am," Mr. Mustang answers, something shifting in his expression. He looks more cautious than before, and Minerva wonders if he's sensed her incredulity. "You t'ink t'at is strange?"

"It has certainly been a long time since I met an alchemist," Minerva answers. "Where did you study?"

"I did not go to a school," Mr. Mustang replies, shaking his head. "I vas Lehrling. Apprentice? But my teacher is dead."

Minerva mulls this over in her head for a long moment. It makes sense, of course. She doesn't know of any alchemy programs still active in Europe, although there are a few remaining in China, and she's heard that South Africa is attempting to revive the study. There are still a few alchemists scattered around Europe, though – ones that could take on an apprentice. Additionally, although Minerva hesitates to make judgements based off appearance, alchemy has a much stronger tradition in Asian countries, and Mr. Mustang's features suggest a similar heritage.

"Are you capable of teaching it?" Minerva finally asks. "Alchemy?"

Mr. Mustang looks thrown off by the question, his lips turning down in a frown and his brow furrowing as he puzzles over her question.

"I haff nefer tried," Mr. Mustang replies after a moment.

"We have not had an alchemy teacher at Hogwarts for over thirty years now," Minerva explains. "Staff are allowed unlimited access to the library, of course."

"You not know t'e first t'ing about me," Mr. Mustang says slowly, a wary edge to his tone, "but you vant to me a job give? I know only little English."

"You would still be required to submit an application to the headmaster," Minerva replies, almost soothed by Mr. Mustang's reluctance to take the job. It decreases the likelihood that he's working for Voldemort and trying to infiltrate Hogwarts, at the very least. "There are a good two months before the start of the term, though. If you've already managed to learn this much English, I would imagine you would be suitably proficient by then."

Mr. Mustang is quiet for a moment.

"It is equifalent exchange," he finally replies. "My teaching for your Bibliothek. I vill t'ink about it."

"If you wish to send in your application, you know how to contact me," Minerva says, standing up from her chair. "I sincerely hope you do. Alchemy is rapidly becoming a dead art in England."

"I can keine Versprechungen give," Mr. Mustang replies. "But t'ank you for t'e opportunity."

"Of course," Minerva answers, before turning to leave the inn. She feels accomplished, in a way. At the very least, she feels certain that he's not a Death Eater – his hesitation shows that much. There is, of course, the matter of the paperwork Minerva is not entirely sure he has, should he apply for the teaching position, but between her and Albus, she's sure they have the connections to work something out.

Alchemy, it seems, just might be revived at Hogwarts.

* * *

A little less than a week later, Minerva McGonagall receives a letter in familiar, messy prose and smiles.

* * *

Harry Potter has been having a less than stellar summer. Then again, Harry doesn't think he's ever had a summer that could be classified as "stellar," or even "moderately decent." Living with the Dursleys will do that to a person, he supposes.

To be completely honest, he's almost _happy_ about getting attacked by dementors, because at least that means he gets whisked away to Grimmauld Place. It's certainly better than Privet Drive, even if Kreacher gives him dirty looks and half of the objects in any given room are cursed.

"Have you read it yet?" Hermione demands when Harry sits down at the breakfast table one morning, still half asleep.

"Read what?" Harry groans, grabbing a few pieces of toast off of the platter at the center of the table.

"The letters we just received from Hogwarts about the new class," Hermione huffs, nudging a slightly crumpled piece of paper in his direction. "Apparently we have to send in our form by Friday if we want to take it."

"What class?" Ron asks from where he's standing in the kitchen doorway, still in his pajamas with a glass of pumpkin juice in his hands.

"Alchemy," Hermione answers, her tone slightly exasperated, as if everyone opens their school post at the crack of dawn.

"Like Nicolas Flamel?" Harry asks, perking up slightly, interested.

"Well, yes," Hermione replies. "Although I suspect the course material will be much more basic than the sort of research Flamel was doing. The course description says it's an elementary class which aims to teach the basic principles of transmutation."

"Think they'd teach us how to make gold?" Ron asks around a mouthful of toast. "That would be wicked."

"It specifically says that gold transmutation will not be taught," Hermione replies, looking like she wants to roll her eyes. "And gold transmutation is illegal, not to mention _highly advanced_."

Ah, Hermione and her priorities. Harry suppresses a smile. He'd missed this.

"Are you going to sign up for it, then?" Harry asks, picking up the letter and skimming it.

"Well, I'm already taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as electives," Hermione sighs. "I suppose I could switch out of Care of Magical Creatures, though."

"But Hagrid teaches that!" Ron exclaims, giving Hermione a disappointed look.

"Haven't you been listening to anything the twins have been saying?" Hermione huffs, lips turning down in a scowl. "Not that I approve of them spying on the Order meetings, of course, but apparently Hagrid's on a mission for Dumbledore right now, and won't be back before the beginning of term. Not that his version of Care of Magical Creatures is very useful anyway – it's more a study of creatures banned by the Ministry."

"But that's the _best part_ ," Ron protests, sounding a little disgruntled, and Harry kind of has to agree with him.

"Well, I think I might try Alchemy," Hermione announces, a certain determination to her tone. "What about you two?"

"I guess I could give up Divination," Harry hedges. Truth be told, now that he thinks about it, he feels a certain sense of nostalgia towards the idea of alchemy. It brings him back to their first year and the whole debacle with the Philosopher's Stone.

"Divination's an easy E, though," Ron counters, which isn't a bad point. "You've gotta have at least one easy class, and if Hagrid's not going to be teaching Care of Magical Creatures that one's up in the air."

"I personally think it would be beneficial for you two to try pushing yourselves for once," Hermione sniffs, already starting to fill out her form. "You're wasting your potential."

"'mione, all the professors stopped accepting 'near death experience' as an excuse for late assignments years ago," Ron replies, giving Hermione an annoyed look. "I have a hard enough time keeping up without my _classes_ trying to kill me too."

Hermione bites her lip, but doesn't argue the point.

"I might think about it a little more," Harry announces. "We have until Friday, right?"

"Professor McGonagall wants to receive the forms on Friday, so you should probably send it off by Thursday," Hermione says.

"Still gives me a few days," Harry replies, shrugging. "Maybe I can read up on it a bit in the meantime. Did the letter say who's teaching it?"

"Roy Mustang," Hermione answers, reading the name off of the course description. "Not a name I recognize."

"That might be good, considering the last time you recognized a professor's name," Ron snorts, taking another bite of toast. "I really hope this bloke's not another Lockhart."

"It wasn't like I could have _known_ ," Hermione huffs, her cheeks flushing red. "And I was twelve!"

"So? We were too," Ron replies, earning him a glare, and Harry has to stifle another smile at their antics. He's been so overstrung and irritable lately that it's nice to just have some _normality_.

Ron and Hermione continue bickering as Harry finishes his breakfast. Not too long afterwards, Mrs. Weasley comes in to rope them into cleaning out more of the dark artifacts from the house, along with some of the… infestations. Harry grimaces. He's really starting to hate doxies.

He mostly forgets about the registration form over the next few days, and it's not until Hermione asks him if he's sent his off with Hedwig that he digs it up again. He hesitates for a moment, mulling it over, before hastily filling it out with his sloppy penmanship.

He really doesn't think he can stand another year of Professor Trelawney anyway.

* * *

Roy Mustang, Minerva has realized, is nothing short of charming, when he wants to be.

However, Minerva would be lying if she said that his lack of paper trail didn't put her slightly on guard. Oh, she doesn't think he's in league with the Dark Lord, that much is certain, but there are always pettier sorts of evil in the world. Charming and mysterious, Minerva has come to learn, are never a terribly good combination.

But part of her just can't help but like him. He's driven, smart, and proficient enough in alchemy – at least, what little she's seen him perform. Albus had done his formal interview, but apparently Roy (he's insisted she call him "Roy" instead of "Mr. Mustang") had passed to his satisfactions.

He hasn't exactly been forthcoming on his background, though. Whenever anyone tires to ask him where he's from, he always gives the same vague answer about coming from a small country out east. From his descriptions, Minerva say it sounds something like Kazakhstan, east of Europe but bordering on Asia, with an area that sounds distinctly Middle Eastern to the south.

The only problem is, Minerva is fairly sure German is not widely spoken in Kazakhstan.

But it's not as if Roy is the only strange one at Hogwarts – it's become something of a home for misfits. Between Rubeus and Sybill, Roy hardly sticks out.

"Well, it looks like you'll have a full class, professor," Minerva says as she sits down in the Great Hall for breakfast, handing Roy a sheet of parchment. "This is your class roster for the coming school year."

"T'ank you, Minerva," Roy says. His English has gotten considerably better for the past few months, Minerva notes, although his accent is still quite heavy.

Minerva busies herself with filling her plate as Roy mutters a spell to configure the letter into braille before reading the roster, his fingers skimming over the parchment.

"Harry Potter?" he says suddenly, lips turning down slightly. "T'at name sounds familiar."

Minerva can't help but stare for a moment. True, Voldemort has always been primarily Britain's problem, but he's exerted his influence over most of Western Europe as well. She doesn't think she's ever met anyone who hadn't know who Harry Potter was.

"He's the Boy Who Lived," Minerva replies, and Roy's expression turns thoughtful.

"Ah, t'e one who defeated t'at terrorist of yours," Roy says, and while Minerva's never heard someone describe Voldemort as a terrorist, she supposes it's apt. "Well, maybe defeated. I've been reading t'e papers and t'ey seem divided on whet'er or not he's back."

"Oh, the _Daily Prophet_ 's all rubbish," Pomona Sprout huffs from her seat on Roy's other side. "You Know Who's back, all right, but the Ministry has the _nerve_ to claim that my student dropped dead of his own accord – !"

"Your student?" Roy asks, his brow furrowing.

"Cedric Diggory," Pomona answers, her voice going a little soft. "A very dedicated, hardworking young man who… well, he was going places."

"I am sorry for your loss," Roy says a little stiffly, but there's genuine concern in his tone.

The three of them fall into silence for a moment, none of them quite sure what to say to lighten the mood.

"Is Potter a good student?" Roy asks, breaking the silence.

"He has his strengths," Minerva allows. "Miss Granger, who I believe is also on your roster, is quite exemplary, though."

"Very bright girl," Pomona adds. "Do you have Weasley, too?"

"Ginerfa?" Roy asks, running his fingers over the roster again.

"No, Ronald," Pomona clarifies, trying to peer over his shoulder at the sheet. "He, Mr. Potter, and Ms. Granger are practically inseparable."

"I do not t'ink he is on my list," Roy replies, shaking his head.

"I imagine he would want to keep up with his current electives," Minerva says. "Although god only knows why anyone would subject themselves to multiple years of Divination."

"Everyone knows it's an easy Exceeds Expectations," Pomona snorts, and Minerva can't really argue with that logic, although her own opinions on Divination are more in line with Ms. Granger's. "Personally, I think the majority of it is hogwash."

"Even if I don't necessarily agree with her teaching, Sybill does have the gift," Minerva says.

"T'e Gift?" Roy echoes, sounding a little alarmed. "Why does she haff Gift?"

Belatedly, Minerva realizes that "gift" in German means "poison."

"Geschenk," Minerva clarifies. "Or a special ability, I suppose."

"Ah," Roy says, the tension seeping out of his shoulders. "Vhat sort of ability is t'is?"

"Predicting the future," Minerva answers simply. Next to her, Roy lets out an incredulous snort.

"No one can predict t'e future," he says, his voice firm. "T'e only way somet'ing happens is if you _make_ it happen."

His words catch Minerva off guard, slightly. She's never been a fan of divination, and even when Sybill's prophesies have come true she's been skeptical, but there's a certain vehemence to Roy's tone that surpasses even her own distaste for the subject.

"Well, she's predicted things correctly in the past," Pomona says, oblivious to the harsh edge in Roy's tone. "Obviously I don't believe _everything_ she says – she predicts a different student's death every year – but sometimes she gets this sort of _look_ about her."

Roy still looks disdainful, but he doesn't press the topic.

"How is your research coming?" Minerva asks, changing the topic to something (hopefully) more neutral. (God knows they don't need Sybill to walk in on them gossiping.)

"Slow," Roy sighs, picking at the eggs on his plate. "It is a lot of sorting t'rough books to find t'e ones t'at are not useless."

"Useless?" Pomona asks, wrinkling her nose.

"Lots of books you haff are not fery good," he replies. "I could not even find a good textbook for my students, so I haff been making my own vit' bits from many books."

"Well, you could always talk to the headmaster if you need assistance," Minerva says, trying to remember what textbook they'd been using when she was in school and alchemy was still taught. "He worked with Nicolas Flamel for some time."

"Nicolas Flamel?" Roy repeats, looking surprised. Minerva can't help but frown a little. It seems strange to her that alchemist would not know about Flamel, as prominent in the field of study as he was.

"It's a shame you can't talk to him directly. He died a few years back when he finally decided to destroy the Philosopher's Stone," Minerva continues, studying Roy's expression carefully. He goes a little blank, his expression closed off and carefully neutral.

"I t'ink I vill talk to t'e headmaster now," Roy says, standing up from the table. "I vill see you ladies later."

With that, he leaves. Not particularly quickly, or slowly, but there's a slight stiffness to his posture which betrays his urgency, to Minerva's eyes, at least.

"What exactly _is_ that boy researching?" Pomona asks once Roy is safely out of earshot.

"Transportation alchemy, he said," Minerva answers.

"Why would he need it, with apparation?" Pomona wonders aloud, her lips turning down into a confused frown.

"I don't know," Minerva answers truthfully.

But maybe she should make an effort to find out.

* * *

As the headmaster of the esteemed institution, Albus always attempted to abide by a certain policy: "Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it."

He's all too aware of the many ways in which he's failed in this with regard to Harry, but he does try. It's why Hagrid can still teach Care of Magical Creatures despite having been expelled and having his wand broken. It's why he'd hired Lupin was able to obtain a faculty position for at least some time, despite the Ministry's many and varied laws concerning werewolves working in proximity to children.

And, it's why Roy Mustang has now been appointed Professor of Alchemy.

Albus has been unable to find records of any sort relating to the man. No birth certificate, no educational history, no passport. But then again, there are still areas of the world where this sort of paperwork isn't as carefully tended to as it is in the United Kingdom.

Still, Albus can't quite shake the feeling that that's not entirely the case for Roy Mustang.

He trusts Minerva's judgement, though – more than he trusts anyone else's judgement – and if she says she doesn't think he's a threat, then he believes her. He'll still be keeping a close eye on Mr. Mustang, but he believes her.

So far, he hasn't done anything particularly suspicious. He spends long hours in the library, particularly in the alchemy section, but he's never strayed to any worrying areas of the restricted section. Albus also knows that he'd gotten help from Minerva in formulating his lesson plans, which is more than most new teachers at Hogwarts do. But then, it does seem like a particularly alchemist thing to do, considering the discipline's central principle of equal exchange.

Albus is finalizing Dolores Umbridge's employment paperwork (which he finds somewhat ironic – shouldn't the Ministry be taking care of it?) when he's informed that there is someone requesting access to his office.

Albus summons them up, and a moment later Roy Mustang appears on the stairway, his fingers trailing along the wall to guide him.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," Roy says, dipping his head in polite greeting.

"Mr. Mustang," Albus replies, returning the gesture – not that the other man can actually see it, he realized belatedly. "How may I help you?"

"It is not'ing terribly urgent," Roy assures him. "It's just t'at I haff been hafing some difficulty vit' my research. Howefer, t'is morning Minerfa informed me t'at you haff vorked vit' Nicolas Flamel. She t'ought t'at you could help me."

"Well, I can see what I can do," Albus says slowly, studying Roy carefully. "I did promise Nicolas that I would protect his research concerning the Philosopher's Stone – "

"I do not care about t'e _stone_ ," Roy snaps, his tone sharp, startling Albus a little.

"I must say that I find that a little difficult to believe," Albus says after a moment. "I have yet to meet an alchemist who does not have at least a passing interest in it."

Roy is silent for a moment. His eyes are trained on Albus, and although he knows that Roy can't actually see him, he feels pinned by the intensity of Roy's gaze.

"I vas interested in t'e stone once," Roy finally admits, breaking the silence. "But t'en I found out how it is made. If you gafe me Flamel's research on t'e stone, t'e only t'ing I vould do vit' it is burn it."

"I see," Albus says, finally relaxing, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "In that case, I shall grant you access to what I have of Nicolas' research notes. However, I need to retrieve them from storage, so it will take me some time."

"Of course," Roy replies, nodding his head curtly. "T'ank you."

Roy apparently takes this as a dismissal and turns to leave, but before he reaches the stairs, Albus finds himself saying, "I've never read them, you know."

"Wie bitte?" Roy asks, his brow furrowed in confusion as he turns back towards Albus.

"His notes on the stone," Albus explains. "He asked me not to."

Roy is silent for a moment.

"Vhat is t'at saying?" Roy finally says. "Ignorance is bliss? He knew you vould not look at him t'e same vay if you knew."

"I've fought in two wars," Albus replies, lips turning down in a frown. "I have done plenty of things worthy of regret."

"Not'ing like t'is," Roy says, shaking his head, his tone soft. "I cannot control vhat you do vit' t'ose notes, but if I vere you, I vould destroy t'em."

"Perhaps I will," Albus finally replies. "If they truly are that dangerous."

Roy nods stiffly, his hands clenched tightly by his sides, before turning around again and disappearing back down the stairs and out of the office. Once he's gone, Albus searches through his desk until he comes up with a key to a Gringotts vault, the dull brass tarnished.

It would seem he has some research to decrypt.


End file.
